


All Broke Down

by musical_emjay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:08:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musical_emjay/pseuds/musical_emjay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean always makes it up to him later, <i>later</i>, in the nebulous hours of the morning, when Sam wakes up slow under his hands, eyes foggy and slanted, dark as pitch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Broke Down

They don’t always sleep in the same bed, even when there’s room to spare. Sam’s a thrasher, and Dean’s getting sick of waking up black and blue, half-strangled in sheets and curled up somewhere near the edge, clinging on for dear life. Sam always manages to look unnecessarily hurt when he moves to the other bed, glaring at him in the dark and hair sticking out at crazy angles, but that isn’t new. Dean always makes it up to him later, _later_ , in the nebulous hours of the morning, when Sam wakes up slow under his hands, eyes foggy and slanted, dark as pitch.

Dean likes it best then, curled in shadows and limned by twilight. He likes to lick along the sweet jut of Sam’s jaw, press up against every taut, hard line of him, toy with the soft skin below Sam’s navel. He can always feel the leap and stutter of a pulse on his fingers, even while Sam is still half-asleep and languid. Sam’s body knows him, responds to every touch, and it always makes him shudder to see the first deep rose blush of arousal float to the surface of his skin, turning him flushed and golden.

The urgency is there, but it’s always there, thrumming like a deep base note, like someone’s plucked their nerves and they’re left shaking, humming, wanting. Dean smirks to himself at catching Sam’s hands as he makes his first feeble grab, still uncoordinated and half-conscious, lacing their fingers and pushing back, back, still Sam is stretched out under him. The line of Sam’s arms makes his pulse pound, rounded and thick, so very powerful as they twist over Sam’s head against the pillow.

Sam makes a soft noise of protest, but settles into the rhythm anyway, shifting so they’re completely flush, Dean braced above him, thighs slick with sweat, straddling. He smiles at Dean, slow, easy, and rocks his hips up like the insistent lap of the tide, cock pushing into the warm crease of thigh and groin. Dean can’t help but push back, call and answer, and leans forward, breathing into the slack pout of Sam’s mouth, tongue searching.

It isn’t always like this, honey slow and bated, the need for frantic friction, for claiming, licking, biting pushed below the surface but waiting. More often it’s just those things, a crazed fuck against a door, crammed into a bathroom stall, spread across the sheets of another seedy motel, his fingers deep inside Sam and desire a white hot pressure behind his eyes. He can’t breathe when it’s like that, when Sam moans like he’s dying, the impossible breadth of his palms cupped tight around Dean’s face, swallowing his mouth whole as if looking for air that Dean can’t possibly give. There’s too much heat, too much want, so many things he wants to do and not enough time before Sam comes apart, blasted into a million pieces like a tree struck by lightning, his voice a high, sustained whimper of _Oh God, Dean..Dean..oh, fuck_.

This time, though, this time he grins at Sam’s bucking thrust upward as he drags his teeth along Sam’s neck, tongue laving in the slick hollow of his throat. “Easy, easy,” he murmurs, flexing his fingers where they still hold Sam’s in place.

Sam’s eyes flutter closed, wide mouth going soft. “Dean…”

He shudders at the hard press of Sam’s cock against his quivering stomach, muscles jumping. It’s hard to hold back with Sam liquid like this, awake but with sleep lingering smoky in the deep black of blown pupils. So much of this is new, in ways he cannot fathom but feels deep and heavy in his bones, and he wants, _needs_ , to catalogue every sound, every bunch and twist of muscle, every shadowed curve and hollow.

He releases one hand and watches Sam’s fingers twitch and curl as he fits his palm over the defined curve of Sam’s hip, thumb rubbing hard and controlled. Two seconds later Sam’s clutching at the nape of his neck as Dean shifts forward and grinds back and forth, dirty and slow, breath catching on a moan. “Sam,” he whispers, back arching smoothly, then leans forward again, pushing hard on the hand still planted above Sam’s head, fingers clenching.

“I want you…” He curls his lips around the shell of Sam’s ear. “…to fuck me.” Sam exhales loudly, and Dean can feel his jaw clench against his cheek. “But slow. _Slow_.”

He draws the word out, keeps it deep in his throat, thick, dark. Pulling back, he revels in the play of desire across Sam’s stricken face, bottom lip pulled between his teeth, and eyes glassy and unfocused. “Please,” Sam chokes, and Dean pulls one hand to his mouth, sucking the long digits in with a swirling tongue.

Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the size of Sam’s hands, the way they hold him, the way they cup and grasp and stroke him. He’s watched them in action, gripping a gun, flipping through stacks of musty books, curled tight around his cock in lazy strokes, but it seems like it’s every day he gets that ache low in his belly like he might die if he can’t wrap his lips around those fingers, feel the calluses along his tongue.

It isn’t long before he lets them slide loose, shivering as Sam slides the wet hand down the dip of his spine, fingers splayed wide and possessive, a low note of satisfaction rumbling deep in his throat. “Like this, Dean?” he drawls, and slips one inside. Dean feels the burn all the way down to his toes, sweet and warm, and pushes back instinctively, a ragged moan falling past his lips.

Sam watches him through slitted eyes, colour high on his cheeks. He’s very much awake now, and moves accordingly, crooking his finger and chewing his lip as Dean shudders. A moment later he moves one in beside the first, and Dean nearly howls, the burn becoming almost too much. Sam pauses, retreats, pulls Dean in for a deep, filthy kiss before he can whine his frustration.

“Gonna have to help me out, Dean,” he murmurs around Dean’s tongue, and his eyes flick over to the bedside table, the half-open drawer. “Want you to scream for _me_ , not cause I’m hurting you.”

Dean shudders again and smirks slowly into Sam’s mouth. “I didn’t know you cared, Sammy.”

“Yeah, well you’ll thank me.”

Dean huffs and then leans forward to rifle through the drawer, taking extra care to grind into Sam as he goes, hooking one leg under and snapping their cocks into alignment. Sam gasps and grabs at Dean’s hip, half-laughing and half moaning, before finding his coordination again to drizzle the lube Dean offers him onto his already spick-slick fingers. Their eyes lock, and Dean can’t help but squirm as Sam’s eyes go dark and hooded.

Somewhere, in the space of all of thirty seconds, a thin crackle of electricity sprang to life between them, and Dean can suddenly feel the leashed strength of Sam under him acutely, the way his muscles tremble and sing. Dean ducks his head, the throb of his cock abruptly too much, and then before he has time to draw a hitching breath Sam rears up, grabbing the curve of Dean’s head and twists, fitting his slack mouth to the darkened slope of his neck, just below his jaw.

“You ready?” Sam’s hot breath blasts past his ear, and without warning slides two fingers into him, scissoring them, hitting that spot, that _fucking perfect_ spot on the very first twist, like it’s the easiest thing in the world rip Dean apart without even trying.

His body bends like a bow, and he almost screams at the bolt of pleasure that shoots up his spine. “ _Ah_ …oh _God_. Oh _fuck_.”

Sam draws him back and rocks Dean into him with every drive of his fingers, the other hand clasped wide around his ribs, thumb rubbing furiously over the aching point of his nipple. The languor from before isn’t entirely gone, but Dean feels far more urgency in the sweet undulations of Sam’s hips against his rather than sleepy insistence. It’s thrumming through Dean’s blood, building blinding white behind his eyes and in every spasm of pleasure. When Sam adds a third finger, pushing in harder and harder with every snap of his wrist, Dean moans long and loud, gripping his cock between them with a shaking hand.

“You ready?” Sam growls again, and this time Dean has time to nod before Sam pulls free and reaches for the lube again, slicking himself in two quick, mindless strokes. He sits back on his haunches and allows the weight of Dean in his lap to push his knees apart before thrusting in, hard and to the hilt, mouth falling open on a breathy half-moan. Dean’s still reeling, voice caught on a string of filth he hardly understands himself, when Sam braces one hand behind himself and fits the other under the curve of his ass and begins snapping his hips, slow and deep.

“Ahh _fuck_ ,” he whines, and begins to move with him, rides every powerful thrust and holds on for dear life, tries to find a way to breathe around the feeling of Sam’s powerful thighs shifting under his ass, and the slick drag of his cock across his brother’s stomach, the length of him inside.

It's almost too much, like he's being ground to pieces, every nerve scraped raw. Sam's gasping under him, holding Dean's face close so every moist breath is shared between them, lips swollen and wet from kissing. His control doesn't slip the whole time, even as his voice goes smoky and rough, coherence vanishing, frantic bursts of _Yeah Dean, oh fuck yes...this what you want, fuck you so slow, Dean...gonna feel me_ to counter the measured, perfects thrusts that hit his prostate with every steady pass, wringing him dry.

It seems like an eternity before Sam’s coming, moaning like he’s dying, like it’s the first time, his whole body shaking with convulsions and fatigue. Dean buries his hand deep in Sam’s sweaty, curling hair and continues to move, savoring the way Sam’s mouth stutters across his neck and he fumbles between them, jacking Dean quick and tight. He almost doesn’t need it, feels his body spiraling out of control already, but Sam’s hand is so rough and perfect around him, his cock’s still buried deep, and that’s enough to send him over the edge, shouting out Sam’s name into the sticky heat of the motel room.

They come down together, Sam sucking lightly on Dean’s lower lip, his huge hand running slow circles on the sweaty small of his back. Dean combs his fingers through Sam’s hair and rumbles deep in his throat, sleepy again and pleased with the sensation of being filled.

“Good?” Sam breathes, tongue pressing in to stroke against his own, and Dean grins, still shaky and weak.

“Good.”


End file.
